The Overlooked Detail
by Elvensorceress
Summary: An important fact was overlooked. Voldemort is still after Harry. The runt of the Death Eaters, Voldemort's Historian and recorder to be exact, is sent on a mission - a very uncomfortable one to Hogarts. Very humerous, but still has a plot... at least, I
1. Default Chapter

Chapter One: The Headache We All Chose to Ignore

         As it was prophesied, Harry the son of Potter, must kill the evil, murderous, ugly, sure-of-himself malevolent Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort (cringe) – or else perish in the attempt. I mean, this was prophesied – if Potter doesn't kill the Dark Lord, then the Dark Lord kills Potter. It's written in the stars somewhere, or something, so it must be true. Sure, we are all pretty much positive poor, young, noble Harry who has his heart in the right place and wears those cute little round glasses will surely stand triumphant over the murderer of his parents, that's how most adventure stories end – the evil, ugly antagonist would never prevail – good triumphant over evil. However, there is one small glitch for our hero, growing ever hotter, Harry James Potter – The man he has to kill is immortal.

         Damn overlooked detail. 

         No, he can't be! Voldemort (cringe) must be able to die, or else what is the point of heroes? What is the point of this brilliant, hopeful tale? Let's review the definition of immortal, shall we – CANNOT DIE. Hmm… sucks to be Harry then.

         However, as in most proper legends, there is an exception – the prophesy. Oh, I thought you said – blah blah blah. I didn't say anything. I said there was a prophesy saying that only one of the two may live and that Voldemort (cringe) cannot die… but, how did the story of the Dark Lord's disappearance go – oh yeah. Voldemort (cringe) kills James, kills Lily, tries to kill one-year-old Harry, but fails. He transfers, most unwilling, let me tell you, his powers into the unharmed save for a scar baby. What makes us Death Eaters kick ourselves in our pants is that at the time of Voldemort's "death", (forgot to cringe) is that he was, in fact, immortal. So where does all this rambling have to do with anything… Let me say this slower… If – Voldemort – transfers – his – powers – to –baby – Potter – and – He – was – immortal – at – the –time – where – does – that – leave – the – kid? Ah, catching on… immortal. And what does immortal mean, my young scholars? Right-o – CANNOT DIE.

         Now great! Two bloody predestined to have an ill fated life damn it immortals have to battle it out to the death, and none of them can die! Unless, of course, we go by brilliant historian's T.R.R Tolkien's definition of immortal – CANNOT DIE unless you get killed by an orc or your girlfriend dumps you. However, times are different now – now children our running about in mini-robes, saggy pants, smoking dope, and creating babies in the back of their fathers' pick-up brooms. Orcs are extinct, and who cares if your girlfriend dumps you – you just continue with the fling you've been having with your teacher all that time. To the point – Harry and Voldemort (cringe) cannot die.

         And that's where I come in.

         You've probably been wondering who has been rambling all of this time, creating that headache your young minds have been desperate to head off. So let me introduce myself – my name is Will. William Whisp. You may have heard of me, or you may just want to stuff my living annoying wits out, but if you are anything of a Quidditch fan, you would know that my great-great uncle on my father's step-father's side wrote the ever so popular Quidditch Through the Ages, written by Kennilworthy Whisp. (Kennilworthy – hmm… his mother must have hated him.) I, however, am pretty much on the other end of the spectrum. I don't write Quidditch How-To books. I am a Death Eater. I write the history of my master's days, I record every brilliant thing He does, I hand out suggestions whenever that brilliant mind of his goes into a rampage because all of his brilliant ideas are being thwarted by that "brilliant" Dumbledore… and sometimes the "Brat" as Voldemort (I'm getting tired of cringing, so I'll wince) likes to refer to Potter… in other words, I'm the one in the Death Eater Order who does all of the thinking. I'm thirty-five-years old, my sign in Aquarius, I enjoy long, thoughtful strolls through ravishing woodlands, and my favorite color is green.

         Lately, my master has been in an intense heat because Potter still lives and breathes. How can the Brat defy the most power, most evil, most ugly Dark Lord ever to walk the face of the earth _so many times?!_ (At this, I would cough, and remind him quietly exactly what happened the day he disappeared, and the whole both of them being immortal thing, yet again. His temper has been at a peak lately, so I've been holding off reminiscing as of late.) I was called into another entirely secret, black jacket club member only meeting. I don't do anything too grand – just stand in a corner and record all the brilliant ideas that come out of the Dark Lord's mouth and comment on how completely ravishing he looks in his new, pre-wind blown robes. The Dark Lord wants to make sure everything he does is recorded so in the future people can look back to them and stroke their chins and exclaim; "Now he was particularly malevolent, wasn't he. Why can't life today be as exciting as back then? Oh, wait – he still lives… oh wait – I'm dead because he's already killed me. Damn." However, I personally think he wants me to write down everything because somewhere very deep within his bony bosom he fears the dreadful protagonist will defeat him, so my words will be his last chance of making him immortal. Oh, yeah – that damn overlooked detail again – he IS immortal.

         So, anyway, it was a Friday and I was crammed into a corner again, ready to take notes at another strictly secret Death Eater meeting. I remember it was a Friday, because on Fridays Chef makes a particularly mean lasagna, and I was still picking the spinach out of my teeth. Death Eaters were already sitting around a long, rectangular table with a plate of biscuits set in the middle. The Dark Lord was pacing in the front. It was pretty hard to see, actually. The Dark Lord has fair skin and sensitive eyes, and even candle light hurts his possessed, snake-like eyeballs, so only three candles were lit, and they were on the other end of the table. I could tell he was pacing, but I couldn't tell if he was wearing his new robes Crabbe got him for his birthday. It was driving me mad.

         Finally, the Dark Lord stopped pacing and gripped the back of his chair. I wrote in my account that his knuckles were white with rage, even though the poor lighting prohibited me from that fascinating detail. However, even the few candles that were lit made his red eyes glisten angrily and threateningly. I quickly wrote that down.

         "I have called this meeting," began the Dark Lord, the ever-so-fearful Voldemort (cringe – I'm getting tired of that damn rule stating you must cringe at the very sound of his name. That rule wasn't the best of my ideas.), because –" he went on about how much alive the boy still is, and my mind wondered off on the many theories I created why he insists on forgetting he passed his powers onto Harry those fifteen years ago, making Harry just as immortal as he is. I didn't need to bother with paying attention to Lord Voldemort's (that's it, I forbid myself to cringe) prologues, because they are all the same – a lot of whining about his thwarted plans. I was happy when the candle light finally picked up what robes he was wearing, and I gleefully scribbled down that they were the ones Crabbe bought him for his birthday. I should not have let myself get carried away with my obsession on robes, for he had, to my dismay, changed his opening speech. Voldemort chose to reunite himself with that brilliant mind he lost the day he disappeared, and created one of his most genius ideas – he thought it was genius at any rate. I, however, wasn't as enthusiastic as the rest of them were. I must have been daydreaming and picking the spinach out of my teeth for about fifteen minutes (Voldemort's prologues usually lasted for about a half-an-hour), and I was suddenly shaken from my reverie by the shouts of laughter and sucking-up praise from the Death Eaters with the "exciting" jobs. My eyes snapped forward, and my quill was instantly at my paper, because I noticed all of their mean, beady eyes were bearing into me. I looked to my master, and he too, was staring at my shadowy figure with a slight smirk on his wickedly chiseled, pale face. I gulped.

         "What – " I cleared my throat, "what was that last part, your wickedness?"

         Voldemort's sneer was more pronounced. "I was just telling my followers how brilliant it would be to have a child on the staff, to get me closer to Potter. A child who would be enrolled into Hogwarts and become best friends with the Brat – a child who could lure him out of that protective castle and bring him to me – a child who would finally lead to Potter's death. Do you have any idea where I could find such a child?"

         Oh! I was almost forming droplets of sweat on my upper lip for a second. He was merely asking for the Historian's help yet again was all. I thought hard of where we could find a child who would be faithful to the ultimately scary dark wizard, and a few names popped to my mind.

         "What about Crabbe and Goyle's sons?" I suggested. "They're already in Hogwarts, and they could get close to the boy."

         Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. "They hate each other," they said. "They've already been plotting his death for years, but are too slow to catch him. My boy…" I frowned. I hated when they went all synchronized like that. It was as if they planned it that way, and it can become very annoying.

         "Then what about –"

         "Whisp, I do not want to hire a student at Hogwarts," Voldemort interrupted, I fell silent instantly. "A student at Hogwarts could serve as a traitor as they have been under Albus Dumbledore's care for many years, and he could have rubbed his foolish ideas into their minds. I want another child – one who will not turn on me – one that already knows…"

         I frowned. One that already knows…? Like a child already a Death Eater? We didn't have any children like that. I shifted nervously on my feet – I did not like how they all were still staring at me.

         Voldemort smiled. It was hideous. Smiling wasn't a practice the Dark Lord was accustomed too; it stretched his thin skin across his bony cheekbones, and I could make out red veins splintering out all over his face. I suddenly grew very scared.

         I swallowed. "Then what, your evil lordship, do you plan on doing?" I braced myself… anytime Voldemort was asked this dreaded question, one of us dies.

         Voldemort's face lit up frighteningly. "I have an idea."

         Brilliant. I take my consciousness away from him for two seconds, and already his twisted mind was forming ideas he should not be dreaming up. I bit the inside of my mouth and tried to puff myself out to look manlier… I'm rather thin and have weak ankles. That's why when I tried out to be a Death Eater, I was shoved into a corner and handed a quill. Obviously, I would be better off not to get my chicken legs into any one's way.

         "You have been loyal to me since you were young," Voldemort continued. "It's time to test exactly how loyal you truly are."

         "Master, I am very loyal to you," I insisted, almost desperately.

         "Exactly the time to prove yourself then. I want you to do something for me… you can refuse, of course… exactly the same way you can die."

         I gulped. The Death Eaters with strong ankles laughed.

         I so wished I could have stopped this. If only I had paid attention to that damned prologue!

         "And – and what do you wish for me to do – Your Evilness."

         Voldemort smiled again.

         So here I am – sixteen again. Voldemort had actually planned ahead of that meeting, and had one of his spies concoct a de-aging potion. However, going back nineteen years wasn't the worst of it.

         My master, my savior, thought it would be easier to get closer to Harry and get him to trust me if I was enrolled into Hogwarts as a sixteen-year-old girl.

         I hate that spy.

         So here, I am, sixteen and female, in a platform, preparing to board the Hogwarts Express. I was extremely depressed. Sure, I may have been more connected to my feminine side then most Death Eaters, but I still had pride, darn it! I'm a man, I'm a historian… and I had to make sure Harry Potter fell in love with me long enough to lure him out of the castle and in front of Voldemort's wand, or else I would die.

         I am writing this account as it happens. I want to slit my wrists. I want to cry. I want explode. I want to rip off this c-cup bra I now have to wear and burn it in a trashcan. I want to go home.

         Why me? O why o why o why o me?

          P.S. Keep in mind… Harry Potter – he's immortal.


	2. Purpose for bras, anyone?

Disclaimer: I forgot to put a disclaimer for the last chapter, but I'm sure you all know by now that I don't own anyone from Harry Potter. Disclaimers are such a bother anyways, so I'll create a huge one now, so I don't have to keep writing one for every chapter… **_DISCLAIMER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_**

That should do it.

And thank you to my reviewers! I love reviews, so keep them coming!

Chapter Two: I'll Give Anyone a Galleon If They Tell Me Why Bras Are Necessary

File Two, First Night

12:30am

Girls' Dormitory

            My mind had numbed over for the rest of the day – I couldn't believe Voldemort had transfigured his most loyal Death Eater into a sixteen-year-old girl! What did I do to offend him? – That's all I asked myself for that entire day; replaying everything in my mind that I could have done to piss the Evil Dark Lord off. Then I had to tell myself, if I had pissed Voldemort off, I should consider myself lucky that he merely mutated me into a horrific beast instead of killing me on the spot. BUT WHY?!

            I was his most loyal Death Eater. Sure I had weak ankles and I may not have been the best looking man in the world, but what Death Eater was good looking, really? Perhaps the Dark Lord had discovered I tuned out for all of his impressively boring prologues, and this is my punishment? He took away my…er… manhood, and had given me ESTROGEN!

            Needless to say, I was one depressed, self conscious Evil Dark Lord Supporter on that train to Hogwarts. Hogwarts! I was going to Hogwarts! It was all too surreal to me… and I was a girl. Careers

            Voldemort thought it would be more "effective" if I was transfigured into what a sixteen-year-old boy would consider sexy, so there would be a better chance for the Potter boy to notice me. I don't know if he did it right… I mean, it's been some time since Voldemort was sixteen. His taste for women may be a little out of style. All I know is is that I can't see my feet anymore, my boobs are so big. (Boobs – I have boobs! There are so many different levels of wrong with this!) Deep red locks now fall around my face, which, I noticed by my deeply depressed reflection in the train window, has a splash of freckles over my nose. My eyes are blue. I'm not complaining about the eye part. I've always wanted blue eyes, and I couldn't stop looking into them in the train window and blinking my eyes rapidly to ensure they were still blue. I already told you – I'm more in touched with my feminine side then most… who am I kidding!? Of course I'm more in touch with my feminine side then most men! I'm wearing a bra!!! I keep forgetting. I don't know how I keep forgetting since this wire keeps cutting off my circulation! Honestly, why is this thing so important? I keep scratching them constantly and I now have two humongous rashes from where this "support wire" comes into play! Rule number one when becoming a woman – Do not allow the Death Eaters to pick out your underwear.  I wonder if I can get away with not wearing it to classes tomorrow.

            But I'm getting ahead of myself.

            Where was I? Oh yes, Hogwarts Train.

            I was brooding away over my lost manhood for about half of the train ride – just staring numbly at the floor, only to occasionally look up to blink my sexy blue eyes at my reflection – when I heard noises out in the corridor. My first instinct was to jump to my feet and slam my compartment door shut so that no one would notice my hideous change, but I had to remind myself that nobody knew that I was once a 35-year-old creepy Death Eater man. I decided to ignore the angry shouts, but then I heard a voice growl, "You're a murdering freak, Potter!"

            "No, Harry, don't!" came another voice, female (I'm so depressed) this time. "That's exactly what Malfoy wants you to do!"      

            My interest was now snagged, so I quietly stepped up to the doorway and poked my head out. Students were all piling out of their compartments, so it was very hard to see. Through some girls who looked to be about my body's age but, as I noticed with detest, had chests relatively smaller than my own, I could see two boys about to slug it out. One of them I recognized as Lucius Malfoy's son, the jackass who is now happily thrown into Azkaban. Whenever Lucius saw me he would never fail to comment on how lowly my existence was, and threatened to feed me to his trolls if I ever wrote anything negative about him in my reports that would embarrass him. (However, this isn't my "official" copy that I will later give to Voldemort. Do you actually think I would write down so many feelings that would be later given to the Dark Lord? So now that that is said – Lucius Malfoy is having an affair with the very ugly secretary of Lord Voldemort's, and she has a giant, hairy mole smack in the middle of her forehead, and rumor has it Lucius now has syphilis because of this fling. Ha! Take that as an embarrassment, you diseased freak!) The other boy, I could only see the back of his head. His hair was jet black, and he was slightly shorter than the young Malfoy. He was huffing with anger, as a frizzy-haired girl (again with a chest smaller than mine. Good grief, are growing sacks of fat on your chest out of style already?) stood between them, holding back the black haired boy.

            _So that is the boy that must sadly fall in love with me_, I thought miserably to myself. I didn't want to go throwing my face into somebody's fist, so I quietly backed away into my compartment. However, I was caught, gosh durn it all!

            A brown hair boy stepped into the doorframe and stared at me with a cocky smile on his face. "Hello," he said, trying to make himself sound manlier than he really was. I recognized this technique. I used it whenever I spoke to the Death Eaters. "You must be new. My name is Seamus Finnigan. What's yours?"

            However, I couldn't answer this disturbing question. My eyes had been diverted to his nose, where a red, swollen zit sat, threatening to explode any second. Oh, gross! Would I get those too now that I had teenage genes? How long would it be before I turned into a human pizza? My stomach lurched, and I felt ready to explode myself.

            "What's the matter?"

            "Get out!" I screeched. "Get out, get out! Oh, you better hope you haven't infected me, you nasty boy!"

            Seamus blinked. "Wha-?"

            "OUT!"

            I pushed him roughly backwards, and he fell out of the compartment.

            "Discover the blessings of indoor plumbing and wash your face, you biohazard waste!" I slammed the door.

            I thought that would be the end of the stalking of horny macho boys, but, sadly enough, I had only created a can of worms, as they were at my door at five minute intervals.

            Each boy was the same – creepy, mostly pimply, smelling pigs who could never keep their eyes raised to my eyes. It was as if they were asking my breasts for their names and not mine. Most of them were thrown violently out, and I finally found my wand and locked the door with a spell.

            I fell against my chair and wanted to cry out. I had spent most of my boyhood trying to get girls to even know I existed, and now I was being hunted down by the kind of boys I used to be! I could feel my lip begin to quiver… I didn't want boobs, darn it.

            After I calmed down, I began to debate with myself whether or not I should introduce myself to Harry Potter. I was supposed to steal his trust, but when should I begin doing that was the question. Voldemort had told me it would be better if Potter fell in love with me – it would be more traumatizing when I transformed back into my hairy man self right in front of him. But did he really need to fall in love with me? I know what goes through sixteen-year-old boys' minds! I finally understood why girls hated to have their behinds smacked by a perverted boy. Actually, I don't think I truly understand, as these girls had never been 35-year-old men. I decided not to pursue Potter until tomorrow. My spirits weren't quite up to flashing a little leg on the first day. I needed time to observe Potter and figure out the best way to introduce myself to him, and if he likes dangerous, haughty girls or the shy type. I still have brain, darn it! I'm going to use it!

            I got to the castle just barely with my girlish innocents still intact. I had to dive into a boat for the first years, because I had a fourteen-year-old running after me, asking if he could have my number, he had lost his – whatever that meant. Oh, I don't know if I mentioned this, but I'm supposed to be posing as a muggle born. I'm a hardcore Pureblood. This may serve as a problem.

            I felt extremely wary inside Dumbledore's castle. This was the man we were all threatened to hate! If we weren't spending our time in dark rooms formulating plans for Harry Potter's demise, then we were doing the same for Albus Dumbledore. He supposedly knew everything – even more than I do. Not to brag or bite my own chicken, but I have a brain packed full of knowledge, let me tell you. I know everything that is going on, and I know the color of everyone's undergarments as if it was second nature. If you are wearing the same pair of black laced panties for the second day in a row, I know. Some may say I only have a crap-load of useless facts, but I promise you, they are not useless. I think I was born with the gift of natural intelligence, and if Dumbledore was too, then I was screwed.

            Minerva McGonagall, the old hag! I had no idea she still worked at Hogwarts! She was the witch escorting all of us first years (well, they were putting me into the sixth year, but I was to be sorted with the eleven-year-olds) into the Great Hall for our part of the ceremony. She had lived next door to my late stepfather. He was the former Chef for Voldemort ages ago before he disappeared, and was killed by the Dark Lord himself because his pastries weren't cooked all of the way. We were so proud…

            Anyway, McGonagall hated me. I attended Hogwarts when I was a boy (no pun intended) and was a little terror. I was the ugly boy with weak ankles running slowly around trying to get girls to sleep with me, and McGonagall was the one they would run to, to rat me out. I had many restraining orders, but that still didn't stop my hormonal self from seeking out new flesh. McGonagall had me in detention and court many a nights. I would only stalk Gryffindors, though. I'm not sure why, now that I look back on it. I think they were just hotter than everyone else. Or because they were supposed to be the brave, "daring" ones, if you know what I mean. McGonagall hated me for that.

            But now I was a girl, and was standing in the midst of a swarm of first years waiting to be sorted – again.

            Since I had already attended a Sorting Ceremony seven times in my life, it was all pretty much boring, so I'll skip to the good part.

            "Watson, Wendy," McGonagall called the name Voldemort had christened my female self. It seemed to take an eternity and some before she got to the W's. I had to stand up there, feeling completely foolish being the oldest and tallest person being sorted, and was relieved when I finally got the chance to sit down.

            If Dumbledore knew I was a Death Eater, he sure didn't act like it. He wasn't even watching me when I approached the sorting stool that was placed directly in front of the wizard Voldemort was trying to prove he was more macho than for year's face, but still, he wouldn't look at me. He was peeling dead skin from his palm… perhaps he was just as bored with the sorting as I was.

            I sat on the stool and the sorting hat was lowered onto my head.

            : We have a blank mind here: said the hat into my head, as if he were reporting a theft.

            : Hey! It is not blank, you damned, possessed hat. I'm just determined to get into the house I want! Which is Gryffindor. I demand to be in Gryffindor:

            : Why won't you let me read your mind? Do you have something to hide? Should I inform Dumbledore? He would love to know why one of his students won't let the sorting hat read his mind…:

            I paused. He knew I was a man. (The voice inside my head was still man, so maybe it wasn't that great of an accomplishment. But it's the small pleasures in life I cherish.) I suddenly loved that hat, but had to keep face so I could make it into Gryffindor – another order given by the Dark Lord.

            : I'm just saving time. No need to get hostile. Put me in Gryffindor and all will be well:

            : I do not work that way, Child. Let me read your mind so I know what house will suit you best. I'm the sorting hat, not you:

            : Gryffindor!:

            : No!:

            : Kerosene!:

            "GRYFFINDOR!"

            I smiled. I swear anyone could choose their fates if they just knew how to close off their minds and threaten things with fire. It's too easy!

            I sat at the Gryffindor table. It was just like before… all of the girls stared loathingly at me – well, it wasn't exactly like before. All of the boys wiggled their eyebrows at me. All of the boys save for Potter. He was scratching that scar on his forehead, and I shivered in disgust. Must he do that in public? We were just about to eat and he was sending scab flakes everywhere!

            The rest of the first years were sorted, and Dumbledore stood. He started going on about dumb rules he instilled to keep the students safe (so much for those) and reminded us all that Voldemort had returned (as if we could forget) and that we shouldn't go wondering off grounds, or into the forest, and so on and so forth. I found it amusing when he said, "But keep in mind – No harm will befall upon you whilst you are here." I had to smile to myself. He was correct, in some aspects. No harm will befall on Potter _physically_ while he's still in this school… I must admit, I'm not entirely sure what Voldemort has in plan for Potter boy when I lure him out of the castle and give him to the Dark Lord. But whatever he's planning, I'm sure it will amount to quite a bit more than a pleasant tickle.

            But gah! Do you know the humiliation it is to change in front of teenage girls! I mean, I still have a male mind, and I keep forgetting I look exactly like the girls (except for the fact that I have the biggest chest amongst the sixth years! Where is the justice?) My heart was racing a mile a minute when they started dropping their robes and getting into lingerie pajamas! Their only sixteen, for crying out loud! And there I was, the best body in the room, climbing into sweat pants and "Make Seven Up Yours" baggy t-shirt that I was told to say that I had gotten from my muggle father. Talk about your barely there underwear! One girl admitted that she had tried sleeping without panties on during the summer, and said it was ultimately more comfortable then having your waist strangled during the night. Then she proceeded to climb into see-through silk pajama bottoms! Does Dumbledore know what goes on in here? Does anybody? It seems too wrong, for some reason. I climbed really fast into bed and tied the curtains tight around it, so I didn't have to see any other weird ritual females do right before lights go out. It's too scary in here!

            Tomorrow is the first day of classes, and I am nervous. Now I have to flaunt my body around in the hall and try to pick up scar heads. I need to calm down… I'm letting Voldemort have way too much freedom here. I'm the one who does all the thinking, so as soon as the screaming dies down in my cranium, I'll begin to plan how I can get Potter out of the castle as soon as possible. The sooner the better.

            AHHHHH!!! GET ME OUT OF HERE!


End file.
